She tickles my funny bone
two front teeth, gone
bare space, a badge of honor
exchange rate higher now
fairies demand more.
Humor
Ninth Inning
She slung words at him like wild pitches
and he shrugged them off for years.
Until one day,
she threw a perfect strike.
Well, what can I say?
The Red Sox are in the basement and we Boston fans need a bit of humor!
Tap Into Life’s Lessons
Magic shoes! Shiny black with big looped bows
slabs of silver metal screwed on soles.
Best gift ever, when I was oh so young.
And oh how I remember…..
NOISE.
PURE NOISE!!!
Swing a leg. Stomp, march, slap, clang!!
Body all feet. ALL SOUNDS.
EVEN WHen i tiptoed.
Add lessons, Tuesdays at ten.
To learn.
Teacher teaches,
directs, muzzles.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
Shu- no, NO, NO!
SHHHH!!!
Like-this.
Con-trol the-swing,
shor-ter. NOT so big.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
One-two, one-two.
Slow-down. Con-trol the-sound.
Com-press your-space.
And there I was, in the mirrored wall,
shrinking. Like putting reins on little feet.
Learning to be small
while growing big.
Learning to fit in.
Bytes
That dog bit me.
Out of nowhere he came flying
like the proverbial bat out of hell
only bigger, with big teeth
a big bite
not like those feasting mosquitoes
on our sand dunes bike ride
not like the needle bite from
the tetanus shot
when you rushed me to ER.
So where were you this time?
When the dog bit me.
Not True
Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.
Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.
Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.
The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.
Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.
Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.
Blue-Light Special
She slings words
like Frank at the corner deli
makes the morning special
corn beef and hash.
Her down-home menu
contains one sentence poems
the occasional palinode, and free verse
poached in simmering creative juices.
Unlike the connoisseurs uptown
she licks her word-smudged fingers
content with happy drop-ins
and the occasional loyal customer.
Woman’s World
Into each life, a little humor must fall.
Frozen peas on the list
she was pleasantly surprised
to get a two-fer
when a hot flash hit,
leaning into frozen foods
for her favorite brand.
Dustings by Two
NaPoWriMo Day 19: without a prompt. My mother loved talcum powder. The kind you “dust” all over yourself. I used to go into the bathroom after her and the floor would be slick and the room would have a heavy perfumed scent. One day, after she died in October 1998, I sat on a bench by her yard and watched as several birds found a dirt hole and proceeded to merrily take a dust bath. Sweet sweet memories juxtaposed.
Dustings by Two
Slick wet lavender tiles
window blurred by steam
she gaily sings and trills
pats and swirls a fancy puff
to create lily scented
clouds of talc
her dusting for the day.
Outside the window
hot bereft of rain
a blue bird warbles
wings flap flutter
dried dirt scatters
creates earthy clouds
of cooling swirling dust.
Tillie’s Folly
NaPoWriMo without a daily prompt. Some people are bigger than life, right?
Ernestine by name, Tillie by choice
her steps swish with a joi de vivre
cultivated in French 101 enrichment class.
Blinking an eye, she sees the world in pink
through custom made cats eye glasses
with one fuchsia tinted lens.
Treasured childhood memories
hot vacation drives, windows rolled down
rest stops with pralines and all things Florida.
Collector of girlie things
orange blossom eau d’ cologne bottles
among lipsticks on the mirrored vanity.
Milliner by trade, homemade hats
spill from the antique wardrobe
in a cacophony of colors.
Eons of moons ago, a girl of five
learned to live her dreams
a spark of creativity began it all.
Red and yellow feathers molded to rings
she strutted through kindergarten
hand made tiara fit for a queen.
Tillie’s Folly, hat shop to the stars
sold to the highest bidder
her sashay through life moves on.
Mornings at Sixty-Seven
Before my rejuvenatement, I was crazed in an all-consuming job — well, being honest — I let it be all-consuming. I used to blame caffeine for my hyper and frenzied approach to life.
So here I am, drinking the same amount of coffee, savoring it rather than gulping it, and mea culpa to the goddess caffeine. Slowing down, my body – not my mind, has made all the difference.
Mornings at Sixty-Seven
Eyes open unbuzzed awake
see him next to me half-covered
grey hair matted with sleep.
Legs stretch with pointed toes
while arms uncoil overhead
the body lumbers out of bed.
Breakfast made and savored
rich aromatic espresso beans
fingers smudged tasting newsprint ink.
At sixty-seven,
my mornings have elongated
into the sublime.
lillian the home poet 
